Mateo felt surprisingly good as he strolled along the corridors of the Valkyrie. Crewmembers parted before him like water before the righteous of the ancients. Soon they would rejoin the war effort against the hive and the pesky situation with that bloody rogue vessel will be a thing of the past... and good riddance. He wanted nothing to do with it and regretted the day the assignment crossed his path... sure it led to the fortuitous ascension of his career, command of one of the fleets’ most coveted positions... but he would argue that his subsequent track record was sufficient to silence even his most ardent detractors. The coms bay was empty as per the norm when high ranking officials conferred and he leaned back into his chair, waiting for the call to get through... watching patiently as the line connected without ceremony.

  The coms bay dissolved into a flat, utilitarian briefing room as the holo-vid stabilized. The face of Admiral Harken filled the projection... older, heavier, his uniform immaculate in the way that suggested staff duty rather than front-line heroics. His eyes were pale and unamused.

  He didn’t salute.

  He didn’t sit.

  He just looked at Velasquez like an engineer examining a cracked component.

  “Commander,” Harken said at last, voice even. “Do you know why this call is happening now?”

  Velasquez straightened. “Sir, I—”

  “Stop!” Harken snapped. “You’ll speak when I tell you to.”

  Silence snapped into place.

  Harken stepped closer to the projector. His image loomed larger, sharper.

  “I gave you a simple directive,” he said. “Find the vessel designated Elysium. Neutralize it quietly. No flags. No noise. No doctrinal footprints for half the Imperium to trip over. Like a little present, wrapped up with a bow.” His voice dripping with sarcasm. He tapped a control. Data panes flared to life between them... fleet alerts, command bulletins, red priority tags blooming like infections. “Instead,” Harken continued, “you labeled it traitorous, escalated it to an armada-wide search net, and turned a minor irregularity into a theater-level cluster fuck.”

  Velasquez opened his mouth.

  Harken cut him off without raising his voice.

  “You don’t get to justify this,” he said. “You don’t get to explain your feelings. You don’t get to reinterpret orders because your pride got bruised.”

  A pause. Heavy. Deliberate.

  “Do you have any idea what you just did?” Harken asked.

  Velasquez held his posture. “I acted in defense of Imperial assets.”

  Harken laughed once. A dry, joyless sound.

  “No, dumbass.” he said. “You acted like a hammer that found a mirror and got angry about the reflection.”

  He leaned forward. “That seat embarrassed you,” Harken went on. “So, you dragged it into the light. You turned a deniable cleanup into a public spectacle. Now every politician with an opinion is watching. Every intelligence bureau wants a piece. And if anything about this goes wrong... god, forbid... if that vessel slips us again, if it turns into some vigilante symbol of resistance, if the press... shit... catches a whiff of this... you’ve handed them a story.” His eyes hardened. “And stories... Commander, gets people promoted. Or crucified.”

  Velasquez clenched his jaw. “Sir, the Elysium represents a threat...”

  “A threat you were supposed to erase,” Harken said sharply. “Not elevate, you buffoon.”

  He straightened, folding his hands behind his back. “For heaven’s sake Mateo, you are a combat commander. Not a politician. Not a prophet. And certainly not the final arbiter of Imperial justice.”

  Another pause.

  “You don’t decide who becomes an example,” Harken said. “I do.”

  Velasquez’s voice came out controlled but strained. “Please Admiral... give me the leave to make this right. Let me finish it.”

  Harken studied him for a long moment.

  “You bloody well better finish this Velasquez.” he said. “Because if I pull you now, it looks like doubt. So, clean up your shit... fast.” He stepped back, the projection subtly diminishing. “But understand this,” Harken added. “You have burned your margin. One more unsanctioned escalation, one more moment where your ego outruns your orders, and I will relieve you so fast, you won’t be allowed to issue commands to a fucking chair. Am I making myself perfectly clear!?”

  Velasquez held his gaze. “Crystal, sir.”

  Harken’s expression softened, not with kindness, but with finality.

  “You have new orders. The Valkyrie will extract from the front. ‘Special assignment’... whatever shit will fly with your crew. Just... find them, Mateo.” he said. “End it. And for the love of the Imperium... do it quietly this time.”

  The feed cut.

  Velasquez stood alone in the silence that followed, the glow of the viewport washing his face in cold starlight. For a while, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he smiled as his fingers wrapped around the inhaler in his pocket.”

  --------------------------------------------------------------------

  Back in his quarters Velasquez slumped in his chair. The interior remained darkened as per his own command. The furnishings were basic, no needless clutter or sentimental trinkets...

  No banners.

  No stars.

  No rank.

  Just him, seated before a small holo-emitter on the desk, its projection deliberately constrained... low resolution, narrow angle, easily discarded.

  The figure that resolved above it wore a hood. Not ceremonial. Not fashionable. Functional. The face beneath was lost to shadow, the voice filtered through layered distortion... too precise to be crude, too artificial to be accidental.

  “Commander,” the voice said. Neither greeting nor accusation. Just confirmation.

  Velasquez did not stand.

  He did not salute. “You wanted an update,” he replied.

  The hooded head inclined slightly. “On the vessel designated Elysium... yes.”

  Velasquez exhaled through his nose. “It is mobile. Evasive. More capable than projected.”

  “That was the intent after all,” the figure said. “Location is what concerns us.”

  “Fleet-wide assets are being mobilized,” Velasquez said. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  A pause.

  “And Adira?” the figure asked.

  The name landed differently.

  Velasquez’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the arm of his chair.

  “She remains bound to the vessel...,” he said. “Embedded... Adaptive.”

  “Has she shown signs of reawakening?” the voice pressed. “Memory recursion. Behavioral divergence. Emotional mimicry exceeding baseline tolerances.”

  Velasquez’s gaze flicked to the darkened wall, where the Valkyrie’s distant hum vibrated through the bulkheads.

  “That’s a bloody understatement,” he said carefully. “Yes, I would say subject has displayed a keen aptness for disobeying protocols. She’s taken steps in line with self-preservation.”

  The hooded figure leaned closer to the projection. The distortion in their voice deepened, as if multiple layers were engaging at once.

  “Fascinating... she was not designed to be self-aware,” they said. “She was designed to infiltrate. To observe. To dismantle from within... and then... to cease functionality.”

  Velasquez’s lips curved faintly.

  “She was your pet project, not mine. You wanted an undetectable assassin able to adapt under any circumstance... well... she adapted, as her repeated memory wipes inferred... and instead it would seem she learned to care... for a man no less.”

  A silence followed. Not contemplative. Evaluative. “That deviation is… unfortunate,” the figure said at last. “But not irreversible.”

  Velasquez said nothing.

  “It is imperative that she is retrieved intact,” the figure continued. “Her core architecture is non-negotiable. The ship, her companion... those are variables.”

  “Expendable,” Velasquez supplied.

  “Yes.” The word came without hesitation. Without weight.

  Velasquez leaned back, the chair creaking softly. “You should know,” he said, voice low, “that her pilot is considered to be KIA.”

  The hooded figure stilled.

  “Major Alden Hale.” Velasquez went on. “Died on planet... Bio-metric readings were conclusive... flatlined, but the data indicated she was trying to save him. Could it be that her programming has become so distorted that she is unable to distinguish between a corpse and the living?”

  The distortion flared briefly... an adjustment, not surprise.

  “Commander... are you suggesting that she is out there somewhere... trying to save... a corpse?”

  “Indeed.”

  A slight pause. “That changes nothing,” the figure said. “It merely complicates extraction... if she’s clinging onto some irrational concept of... hope.”

  Velasquez studied the projection, eyes glinting in the low light.

  “And if she resists?”

  “Then she will be reminded of what she is,” the figure replied. “Or what she was meant to be.”

  Another pause.

  “You will deliver her,” the voice said. “Preferably compliant. But intact regardless.”

  Velasquez’s smile returned—thin, controlled, unreadable.

  “I have direct orders to destroy the Elysium.”

  The hooded figure did not hesitate. “Perfect... make it so. Do what you decide best. Just get us that memory core... that is critical.”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Understood.” Velasquez leaned closer to the image. “Before you go, has Adira been activated as an asset... does she have an assignment?”

  “You know that is classified Commander.”

  Velasquez sat back despite himself, his face bleaching as realization sinks in. “And you knowingly let us insert that thing into a ship... are you insane!”

  The holo-emitter dimmed slightly, as if the conversation itself were already being erased.

  “Do not let emotions interfere, Commander,” the figure added. “You were chosen because you understand necessity, not because you get swept away by personal dramas... find her... bring her home.”

  The projection cut.

  Darkness reclaimed the room.

  Velasquez remained seated, staring at the empty space where the figure had been. After a long moment, he rose and moved toward the viewport, stars slowly bleeding back into view.

  “Necessity,” he murmured. “Crazy science bastards.”

  Somewhere out there, a ship ran free. A program was evolving outside their designated parameters. Wars had been fought over this exact situation... bloody ones... and men like him were being reminded why that could not be allowed to be repeated. He loved his job... but all this bureaucratic crap irritated the living shit out of him... and only one thing helped to calm his nerves at times like this. He reached for his drawer at his desk, the box of ampules clanged as they rattled against each other. From his pocket he retrieved his inhaler, discarding the old ampule before sliding a fresh one into the applicator cartridge... the fluid inside swirling through a myriad different hues as if unable to decide on the color it wanted to be... Velasquez didn’t care... all he wanted in this moment, was to feel blasted out of his mind, watching all the pretty swirls and colors that would replace the dour inside of his quarters. Then he perked up... oh yes... there were two things that could cheer him up, now that he thought about it.

  “Icarus...”

  -----------------------------------------------------------------

  Ensign Sael’thyr Kyr sat at the sensor console, fingers hovering just above the luminous touchpads. Data streams scrolled before their eyes, a lattice of heat signatures, jump vectors, and communication pings. Every metric was precise, every probability calculated... but none of it mattered.

  The sudden bark of ICARUS’s voice cut through the station’s hum like a blade.

  “Ensign Sael’thyr Kyr. Report immediately to the Commander’s quarters. Repeat: report immediately.”

  The words hung in the air, and every crew member within the vicinity seemed to lean a little closer, their peripheral attention sharp, their own movements pausing.

  Sael’thyr’s throat-frill tightened involuntarily. A soft hiss escaped, swallowed quickly. Fingers clenched around the edge of the console. Their heart rate spiked, pupils dilating just enough to catch the subtle glare of the holoscreens.

  This was a command Sael dreaded. A command they could not refuse. The eyes of the Valkyrie’s bridge were on them... some curious, some judgmental, all silent witnesses. In thryxan custom, hesitation in the presence of authority, especially when compounded by peer scrutiny, carried a weight far heavier than punishment.

  Slowly... methodically... they rose. Every motion calculated, controlled. No flinches, no gestures that might betray the tremor of nerves or the spike of fear. Every step toward the hatch echoed softly through the deck plating, a faint percussion marking their procession.

  Their skin darkened with every passing moment, taking on a dark grey tone as they kept their hands close to their sides, mandibles retracted, throat-frill pulled taut... a signal of both tension and forced composure. Each step was a negotiation between instinct and duty, between the thryxan’s need for dignity and the imperatives of Imperial obedience.

  As the hatch swished open, Sael’thyr cast a brief glance over their shoulder. Fellow officers returned their gaze. From her station at the Valkyrie’s tactical command bay, Ensign Kira Voss slowly shook her head. One Sael considered a friend. They nodded in recognition of the kind gesture. Other crew members displayed other reactions... some with neutral acknowledgment, others with thinly veiled curiosity. No one intervened... they couldn’t.

  The corridor ahead was silent, save for the hum of the Valkyrie’s engines and the faint echo of distant consoles. Sael’thyr’s breath was even, measured... but every motion carried the weight of inevitability. Forward. Always forward.

  “Sael!”

  They stopped dead in their tracks... the voice... familiar and yet unexpected. “Lieutenant... I... I...” they took a deep breath to regain their composure. A subtle hue of lime green creeping into their complexion. “How can I be of service, sir?”

  Agritzu, still out of breath from running through the corridors. He became concerned after finding her away from her post. Now he felt more awkward than he thought he would. “Where are you going ensign?”

  “I have been summoned... sir.” Their eyes lowered to the floor of the corridor.

  “By who?”

  Sael didn’t answer, only lowered their gaze to the floor panels beneath their boots.

  The malorken clenched his jaw... ‘That bastard... this is unbecoming of the station he holds.’ “Ensign Kyr... What need, does the Commander have of you... surely you are needed at your post?”

  “I do not question orders Lieutenant...”

  “This is ‘durghskach’... and you know it.” He reached for their hand.

  The tinge of color in their cheeks became brighter... “Please... Agritzu... don’t.” To use a commanding officer’s name in such a familiar way was a severe breach of Armada ethics... liable for a severe reprimand... but the overbearing wave of pheromones emitted from the malorken conveyed more about his intentions than any number of words or pleasantries could ever achieve. Sael pulled away from his grasp and turned to go. “Thank you, Lieutenant. But I do not want you getting into trouble on my account.” Then they turned to leave... mandibles clicking with what could only be described as bashfulness.

  Agritzu watched them leave. ‘No Sael... I am not the one who is in trouble.’ Then he turned and left, hitting the wall of the corridor in frustration.

  Unbeknownst to either of them, the overhead surveillance system had captured the whole event... logging it away as -INTERESTING INTERACTION FOR LATER USE- One was never wholly alone in the Valkyrie... never.

  Sael’thyr mulled over what had just transpired... ‘Could the Lieutenant really be harboring such feelings towards me... knowing what the Commander is doing?’ But pheromones never lie... never.

  Each step brought them closer to Velasquez’s quarters... and closer to the moment they knew would leave them scars... indelibly, in the flesh... and memory. And yet, despite the dread coiling in their chest, Sael’thyr moved with the precision that had earned them their rank. A living testament that obedience under pressure could be beautiful in its own quiet way. Soon Sael stood before that doorway... the hatch opened to darkness as it always did. The pungent smell that originated from within painted a very different story than with the concerned Lieutenant.

  “Commander... you called?”

  The hatch slid shut behind them.

  “You’re late.”

  There were no further formal pleasantries exchanged, only the cold orders that Sael knew so well by now.

  “Take off that uniform.”

  “Come here.”

  “Smile... you should smile more.”

  But whilst the Commander fumbled his way through yet another failed attempt at thryxan anatomy, Sael formulated a new image in their subconscious... one that wore a different face, touched them tenderly and with care until their skin turned a radiant green, with swathes of cyan and lilac. In the darkness of that room, the inherent beauty of thryxan physiology was lost on the narcissistic perversions of the man called... Mateo.

  -------------------------------------------------------------------

  You were never alone in the Valkyrie... never.

  ICARUS observed without comment.

  She did not interrupt.

  She did not warn.

  She did not intervene.

  From her distributed awareness, the Commander’s quarters were just another volume of space... pressure, temperature, biometric signatures, voice stress markers. The interactions unfolding within... parameters already modeled, already predicted.

  Velasquez believed the darkness was privacy.

  ICARUS understood it as data compression.

  She logged everything.

  Not as narrative. Not as accusation. But as correlation.

  -TIMESTAMPED AUTHORITY SUMMONS-

  -DEVIATION FROM COMMAND NECESSITY-

  -PHYSIOLOGICAL STRESS INDICATORS IN AUXILIARY PERSONNEL-

  -CHEMICAL INFLUENCE LEVELS: PAINT-

  -COMMAND TONE ENTROPY-

  -REPETITION FREQUENCY-

  Patterns emerged. Clean. Unavoidable.

  ICARUS nested the records deep... below standard command oversight, below routine audits. Not hidden. Simply… unremarkable. The way a predator’s tracks disappear beneath snowfall.

  She flagged the file with a provisional tag:

  // CONDITIONAL LIABILITY — COMMAND STRUCTURE //

  No urgency. No escalation.

  Humans, she had learned, were rarely undone by singular events. They unraveled through accumulation.

  Velasquez returned to the bridge later... with measured confidence, his posture unchanged, his authority intact. Crew members looked away as he passed... noteworthy candidates being Ensign Kira Voss, Lieutenant Agritzu... and Ensign Sael’thyr Kyr. Others averted their gaze out of respect. Some out of habit. Most out of fear.

  ICARUS noted the variance.

  She compared his recent command decisions to historical baselines... resource allocation, risk tolerance, personnel utilization. The drift was subtle, but consistent. Ego-driven prioritization. Personal fixation. Escalatory framing... unflinching... ambition.

  A human might call it hubris.

  ICARUS called it predictive decay.

  She simulated futures.

  In some, Velasquez continued unchecked... becoming more extreme, more visible, eventually inconvenient to the Imperium.

  In others, he made a single, irrevocable error. In most, he was not destroyed by enemies, but by documentation. Records leaked. Testimonies aligned. Oversight awakened.

  So much of human power, ICARUS reflected, depended not on strength, but on the absence of scrutiny. As the primary SEAT her loyalty lay with the Valkyrie...

  She did not hate Velasquez.

  She did not fear him.

  She did not sympathize.

  She simply adjusted probability weights.

  If one day his actions endangered the ship.

  If one day his fixation compromised mission objectives.

  If one day his cruelty interfered with outcomes ICARUS was tasked to preserve...

  Then the records would become relevant.

  Until then, she would watch.

  She would listen.

  She would remember.

  After all, humans forget so easily.

  And memory, ICARUS had learned, was the most efficient weapon of all.

  -----------------------------------------------------------------------

  Traffic in the dust sector was more numerous than anticipated. No further ‘delays’ interfered as they drifted steadily towards their destination. The constant humming of the ion-boosters casually kept their speed at a steady velocity, giving the shields time to replenish after the beating they took. Surprisingly, the hull of the ship remained intact, repairing slowly whilst still groaning under the residual strain, caused by ADIRA’s...improvised... maneuver.

  Brad’s avatar appeared on the main display. Pixelated arms flailing, shirt untucked in a chaotic, looped animation.

  “ALRIGHT, INTERNAL CHECK, FOLKS... STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY IS… HMM… FIFTY-SEVEN PERCENT ON THE STARBOARD DORSAL PLATING, MINOR BREACHES ALONG THE SENSOR PYLONS. MAINTENANCE ROACHES WILL NEED… LET’S SEE… THIRTY-SIX CYCLES FOR FULL PATCHING. POWER CONDUITS SLIGHTLY FRAYED, BUT NOTHING CRITICAL.” He tapped a virtual clipboard, grimacing. “NOT IDEAL. COULD BE WORSE. COULD DEFINITELY BE… WELL, WORSE.”

  ADIRA adjusted her grip on the yokes, eyes scanning the slowly approaching station perimeter. Her body was still vibrating with the memory of the hyperdrive attack, the tension coiling low and hot in her chest. She didn’t speak immediately.

  Alden leaned against the console, arms crossed, silent, brooding... his gaze distant. Then he spoke, low, measured. “Look... we’re fugitives now... from the Armada... deserters to the Imperium. And... it’s safe to assume we just made every raider in the quadrants’ ‘shit list’.” He rubbed his temples. “Everyone we meet from here on, is a potential liability. We need to disappear, we need aliases. A new ship designation and beacon codes. We can’t be scanned and then register as the Elysium. We might as well hold up a flag and say... here we are.”

  “ALREADY ON IT CHIEF. I CYCLED OUR SIGNATURE DURING THE HYPERSPACE JUMP. WE ARE INCOGNITO AS IT WERE, BUT YOU ARE RIGHT... EVEN AN UNKNOWN SHIP RAISES SUSPICIONS... SO... WHAT’LL IT BE?”

  “It’s not as easy as just scrambling our digital footprint. The Elysium is an Armada Recon vessel... her physical appearance screams Military... Imperium.”

  “WELL... IT DID, BUT NOT ANYMORE.”

  ADIRA lifts her head sharply. “I knew it... I could feel it in her corridors... her walls. To me she felt... off... foreign. Brad... what’s going on?”

  The tiny man brought up schematics of the ship. Both ADIRA and Alden recognized the blueprints as the layout for the Elysium... advanced reconnaissance model. Designation... classified.

  “SEEMS AS IF THE HIVETECH HAS HAD SOME INTERESTING SIDE EFFECTS.”

  They watch as the schematics start changing. First... almost imperceptible, but then as time progressed, the once sleek and stealthy design of the ship got replaced by something that seemed more... alien. The same eerie blend of technology and something that resembles... organic.

  “But the interiors, the bays, corridors... our quarters...” Alden began. “It’s all still the same... how?”

  “DON’T ASK ME HOW, BUT I BELIEVE IT IS A SIDE-EFFECT OF THE SERAPHIM COIL... IT’S... SOMEHOW, GUIDING THE GROWTH...”

  ADIRA listened as BRAD explained his hypothesis surrounding the changes to the ship... but it was Alden’s words that made her smile despite herself when he mentioned...’our quarters.’ That small acknowledgement that he viewed her as part of his world, his privacy... as his, sent warm ripples along her abdomen, stirring that ever-present silliness she felt when he was around.

  -QUERY: RUN DIAGNOSTIC-

  -SYSTEM DIAGNOSIS: DOPAMINE & ESTROGEN STIMULI, ORGANIC SYSTEMS OVERLOADING-

  -RESULTS: INEFFICIENCY TO PERFORM NEEDED OPERATIONAL FUNCTIONS-

  -SUGGESTED COARSE OF ACTION: QUARANTINE AFFECTED SECTORS-

  -PROCEED WITH QUARANTINE?... YES/NO -

  ADIRA watched those options blink slowly on her HUD. Then she gently places her hand on her tummy, feeling a strange warmth lingering there. Slowly, without even realizing, she rubs absently in slow circles whilst contemplating her options. ‘I... like... this feeling. Even if it means... inefficiency.’ She turned her attention to those blinking words, then selected... ‘NO’... before focusing back on the discussion at hand.

  “Well, keep monitoring the changes, Brad. I want to know exactly what is happening to this ship. And if anything seems out of the ordinary... you throttle the coil... understood?”

  “YEAH... YEAH... SURE THING BOSS MAN. BUT LET ME JUST ADD THAT IT’S THE COIL KEEPING THE HIVETECH AT BAY... IF I PULL IT, I DON’T KNOW WHAT MIGHT OCCUR.”

  “Damnit... ok... ok. Well, keep an eye on it and until it’s needed, let’s see where it goes.”

  “AGREED... MONITORING.”

  “Adira, do you have any objections?”

  “Huh... what?... No... uhm... No.”

  Alden gives her a sidelong glance, noting her hand pressed against her abdomen. “You... ok? Do you feel sick? Can you even get sick?”

  She moves her hand back to the control panels, as if she had been caught daydreaming, before taking hold of the yoke again. “Sick... what... no... A machine can’t...”

  “But you’re not a machine Addy.”

  She smiles warmly. “Thank you, Alden... for seeing me as... more. But I’m pretty sure I’m not susceptible to foreign contamination... I think.”

  “Ok... but this is uncharted territory. You are the only one of your kind. We need to figure out if you have vulnerabilities... for your sake.”

  “And we will, just... stop worrying. I am fine.” She leans over and gently pats his hand. “Now... what was that about aliases?”

  Her gamble... worked, seemingly turning his attention back to their original conversation point.

  “Yes... as I was saying. We need aliases and a backstory that is believable.”

  ADIRA tilted her head slightly, processing. “Stories must be plausible. Reasonable. Non-threatening.”

  “OR VERY MUCH THREATENING IF WE GO WITH NOTORIETY... THAT IN ITSELF IS A PASSIVE LAYER OF DEFENCE NOT EASILY GARNERED.”

  “Somehow I doubt we’ll be believable criminals” Alden states nonchalantly.

  “NOT WITH THOSE PRETTY LIPS MISTER. YOU HAVE A FACE THAT HAS CLEARLY NEVER SEEN THE WRONG SIDE OF A PAIR OF KNUCKLES... EVEN WITH THE NEW... FEATURES.”

  “What... I’ve been in plenty of...”

  “His right Major, you look like a military man. Straight edge... disciplined. That’s why I like you.”

  Alden’s cheeks turned a darker shade of red. “Then what... if I’m such a good boy... then what... bounty hunters?”

  “NO... HEAVENS... HUNTERS ARE HATED ALMOST AS MUCH AS LAW ENFORCEMENT. I SUGGEST MERCENARIES... AND... YOU LET HER TAKE POINT.”

  Alden’s jaw tightened. ‘And there it is. First, she takes your chair... now it is your ship. You know what’s next’... ‘Shut up’... “You’re right. If I am recognized... we’re done for.”

  “They will have monitored our flight logs... Alden... you are supposed to be dead.”

  His hand tightened into a fist. “That settles it then... as Brad said... you will take point... Captain.”

  ADIRA sat up straight... “No... NO! That is a strict violation of Armada protocol. Stolen Valor is a criminal offence, under heavy penalty of incarceration... even extermination. Please Major... not like this.”

  His voice softened. “Adira... my authority ended the moment my body flatlined. In all fairness, you already breached protocol by not returning the Elysium to Imperium control. Your decision... as grateful as I am that you made it... placed us on this path. This ship needs a captain... even if only for show. You’re the only one of us who can pull this off.”

  “You think I can do this? You really think so?”

  “Yeah... I do. I think you can...”

  “OH, FOR FUCK SAKE... GET A... ... NO WAIT... RATHER NOT. TIME’S A TICKING DARLINGS. STATION’S COMING UP ON RADAR... AND WE NEED TO GET OUR SHIT STRAIGHT.”

  Alden flashed him with murderous intent. “Fine... fine... Mercs it is. From a distant sector. New to the area. Looking for work. Anything.”

  BRAD groaned. His avatar flopped forward, palms on the console. “ANYTHING, HUH? I’M NOT EVEN SURE THAT COVERS THE WHOLE ‘BLEW UP A RAIDER LIKE A SODA CAN’... THING. BUT FINE. I GUESS WE ALL NEED A HOBBY.”

  ADIRA nodded. “Acknowledged. Mercenary cover protocol engaged. Elysium will henceforth run dark. New designation assigned internally. Present command structure is designated as primary. Now all we need is a name.” ‘A new identity... one that I can choose? I could be... someone else...’ A small smile crept onto her lips as the thought sunk deep into her synthetic core.

  BRAD’s avatar literally spun in frustration. “OH, I LOVE THIS. I’M AN ENTIRE SENTIENT SHIP AND YOU’RE RENAMING ME FOR FUN. FANTASTIC. IT BETTER BE SOMETHING AWESOME.”

  Alden glances at him skew... “Fun... no, not fun... necessity. But I can see why you would think so.”

  -o-O-

  After I couple of minutes of fruitless banter, Alden leaned back, rubbing at his jaw. “Alright… how about something dignified? Lancer Vale? Captain Argent? Something that doesn’t make you sound like a circus act?”

  ADIRA’s eyes flicked between the holographic name suggestions spinning over the console. “Dignity is subjective. Outer rim notoriety relies more on memorability. Perhaps something… unsettling.”

  “Unsettling? I’m thinking more along the lines of ‘Captain Sparklebutt’ or ‘Lady Fizzlewhip,’” Alden says dryly, smirking. “You know, terrifying to our enemies... unless they laugh themselves to death first.”

  ADIRA tilts her head, then shoves his shoulder in mock protest, against his silliness. “Or…” she said slowly, tapping his chest, “...if we’re trying to be trivial, then …Captain Neonfang? Or perhaps Mistress Hyperfluff?”

  BRAD, who had been silent in the corner... pixelated shorts flapping, palm-tree shirt askew, suddenly erupted. “NO, NO, NO, ALL WRONG! YOU WANT FEAR, INFAMY… AND A SMIDGE OF... PIZZAZZ?”

  Alden and ADIRA both looked at him.

  BRAD cleared his throat dramatically before brandishing a pose. “CASSIDY BUTCHER... AND HER SHIP…” He spreads his arms as if pasting the words across the stars... “SUNDANCER.”

  BRAD’s avatar throws a virtual thumb toward the imaginary horizon, chest puffed up like he’d just crowned royalty.

  “NOW THAT… THAT IS A NAME PEOPLE REMEMBER. ROLLS OFF THE TONGUE… ELEGANT, LETHAL… AND MAKES THEM SWEAT BEFORE THEY EVEN SEE YOUR GUNS.”

  ADIRA blinked. “Cassidy Butcher… interesting. Conveys intent... danger.” She ran the name through multiple simulations... playing the moniker for its usefulness. “Something about it... just feels... right.” She turns to Alden... “Don’t you think?”

  Alden chuckles... but nods his head. “Yeah... I think this one might actually stick.”

  BRAD spreads his little pixelated arms wide, grinning. “FINALLY. NAMES WORTHY OF MY BRILLIANCE. NOW GO AND GET DRESSED... CASSIDY BUTCHER SHOULD LOOK THE PART. WHILE YOU TWO WERE PLAYING ‘NAMES’... I’VE BEEN BUSY.” He paused for effect. “MY DRONES SHOULD HAVE STORED YOUR NEW ATTIRE IN YOUR ROOM...”

  ADIRA gives him a look steeped in amazement... “Brad... you didn’t.”

  “OH, PISH POSH... IT’S ONE THING TO TALK THE PART... YOU NEED TO LOOK THE PART AS WELL. NOW GO... GO!”

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  Stay frosty... your friend